Title: Robby Riverton - Mail Order Bride
Author: Eli Easton
Genre: M/M Romance, Historical
Release Date: April 24, 2018
Cover Design: Dar Albert/Wicked Smart Designs
Summary:Being a fugitive in the old west shouldn’t be this much fun.
The year is 1860. Robby Riverton is a rising star on the New York stage. But he witnesses a murder by a famous crime boss and is forced to go on the run--all the way to Santa Fe. When he still hasn't ditched his pursuers, he disguises himself as a mail order bride he meets on the wagon train. Caught between gangsters that want to kill him, and the crazy, uncouth family of his "intended", Robby's only ally is a lazy sheriff who sees exactly who Robby is -- and can't resist him.
Trace Crabtree took the job as sheriff of Flat Bottom because there was never a thing going on. And then Robby Riverton showed up. Disguised as a woman. And betrothed to Trace’s brother. If that wasn’t complication enough, Trace had to find the man as appealing as blueberry pie. He urges Robby to stay undercover until the danger has passed. But a few weeks of having Robby-Rowena at the ranch, and the Crabtree family will never be the same again.
Robby pushed himself off the wall, kicked off his boots, and pulled the camisole over his head.
“Hey now,” Trace warned. He’d told himself he wasn’t going to do this.
But Robby ignored him, pushing his long johns off to reveal a dark nest of hair and a long, soft cock. He headed out the door buck naked.
Trace followed, because of course he did. He watched Robby wade into the river, as eager as a child. He let out a big whoop and splashed water to the heavens. He ducked under and came up gasping and laughing, his dark hair streaming. He raised his face to the sun, smiling.
With a stab of pain, Trace understood. Robby’s new defiant attitude, his recklessness… Trace had seen more than a few battles in his army years, and he’d watched a lot of young men chase life hard the night before—laugh too loud, drink too much, wrestle and carry on—right up until the morning when they were cut down.
It hurt so badly for a moment, it stole his breath. This is what he’d run from, why he never wanted to care about anything again, or be close to any kind of action whatsoever.
He let it hurt for a moment, the aching pain throbbing bright as a knife wound then fading out. When it was done, he peeled off his clothes and went for a goddamn swim.
The river had looked so crystal clean and welcoming on Robby’s walk. He was anxious to get in it. The icy cold shocked his body but there was only a moment’s breathlessness before the slick felt wonderful against his naked skin. It was like a baptism. When he submerged and rose up again, he was 100 percent Robby Riverton and no one else. Dear God, he needed that.
The river’s surface was mostly calm here, dotted and dimpled with the current. It had enough force to drag against his skin, but not enough to knock him off his feet. He swam, broad, overhand strokes, first with the current, then against it. All the while he was aware of Trace watching him, treading water up to his shoulders. His expression was melancholy.
He looked so good though, with those bare shoulders, his stubble-roughed jaw, and his sandy hair darkened and slicked back. Robby was no saint and his willpower was in short supply. Suddenly he couldn’t swim toward Trace fast enough.
He stopped an arm’s length away. His feet found pebbled ground. He dug in his toes—smooth-hard rocks, the squish of mud. Every sensation was heightened today, every feeling magnified, echoing around in his chest, in his soul.
He didn’t want to feel fatalistic. But the resignation that had taken root inside him made every breath feel important, something to be appreciated and savored, something that might never come again.
He watched Trace, memorizing the sight of him standing in that river. The water lapped at Robby’s shoulders. His legs were going numb. His genitals felt floaty and shy in the cold. His toes got slimed in the riverbed.
“So. Do you like me without the dress?” Robby asked, smiling in invitation.
“You’re about the best-lookin’ man I ever saw,” Trace said seriously, his eyes still sad. “Hell yes, I like ya like this. I’d also like ya done up in nice trousers, and a vest, and a shirt pressed so crisp it’d cut, like they do in the laundry in Santa Fe. I will see you like that someday, Robby, and take ya out to a nice dinner. Or I’ll be damned.”
“Hey now,” Trace warned. He’d told himself he wasn’t going to do this.
But Robby ignored him, pushing his long johns off to reveal a dark nest of hair and a long, soft cock. He headed out the door buck naked.
Trace followed, because of course he did. He watched Robby wade into the river, as eager as a child. He let out a big whoop and splashed water to the heavens. He ducked under and came up gasping and laughing, his dark hair streaming. He raised his face to the sun, smiling.
With a stab of pain, Trace understood. Robby’s new defiant attitude, his recklessness… Trace had seen more than a few battles in his army years, and he’d watched a lot of young men chase life hard the night before—laugh too loud, drink too much, wrestle and carry on—right up until the morning when they were cut down.
It hurt so badly for a moment, it stole his breath. This is what he’d run from, why he never wanted to care about anything again, or be close to any kind of action whatsoever.
He let it hurt for a moment, the aching pain throbbing bright as a knife wound then fading out. When it was done, he peeled off his clothes and went for a goddamn swim.
The river had looked so crystal clean and welcoming on Robby’s walk. He was anxious to get in it. The icy cold shocked his body but there was only a moment’s breathlessness before the slick felt wonderful against his naked skin. It was like a baptism. When he submerged and rose up again, he was 100 percent Robby Riverton and no one else. Dear God, he needed that.
The river’s surface was mostly calm here, dotted and dimpled with the current. It had enough force to drag against his skin, but not enough to knock him off his feet. He swam, broad, overhand strokes, first with the current, then against it. All the while he was aware of Trace watching him, treading water up to his shoulders. His expression was melancholy.
He looked so good though, with those bare shoulders, his stubble-roughed jaw, and his sandy hair darkened and slicked back. Robby was no saint and his willpower was in short supply. Suddenly he couldn’t swim toward Trace fast enough.
He stopped an arm’s length away. His feet found pebbled ground. He dug in his toes—smooth-hard rocks, the squish of mud. Every sensation was heightened today, every feeling magnified, echoing around in his chest, in his soul.
He didn’t want to feel fatalistic. But the resignation that had taken root inside him made every breath feel important, something to be appreciated and savored, something that might never come again.
He watched Trace, memorizing the sight of him standing in that river. The water lapped at Robby’s shoulders. His legs were going numb. His genitals felt floaty and shy in the cold. His toes got slimed in the riverbed.
“So. Do you like me without the dress?” Robby asked, smiling in invitation.
“You’re about the best-lookin’ man I ever saw,” Trace said seriously, his eyes still sad. “Hell yes, I like ya like this. I’d also like ya done up in nice trousers, and a vest, and a shirt pressed so crisp it’d cut, like they do in the laundry in Santa Fe. I will see you like that someday, Robby, and take ya out to a nice dinner. Or I’ll be damned.”
Author Bio:
Having been, at various times and under different names, a minister’s daughter, a computer programmer, a game designer, the author of paranormal mysteries, a fan fiction writer, and organic farmer, Eli has been a m/m romance author since 2013. She has over 30 books published.
Eli has loved romance since her teens and she particular admires writers who can combine literary merit, genuine humor, melting hotness, and eye-dabbing sweetness into one story. She promises to strive to achieve most of that most of the time. She currently lives on a farm in Pennsylvania with her husband, bulldogs, cows, a cat, and lots of groundhogs.
In romance, Eli is best known for her Christmas stories because she’s a total Christmas sap. These include “Blame it on the Mistletoe”, “Unwrapping Hank” and “Merry Christmas, Mr. Miggles”. Her “Howl at the Moon” series of paranormal romances featuring the town of Mad Creek and its dog shifters has been popular with readers. And her series of Amish-themed romances, Men of Lancaster County, has won genre awards.
In 2018 Eli hopes to do more of the same, assuming they reschedule the apocalypse.
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EMAIL: eli@elieaston.com
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